Ears are still ringing, lungs continuing to suffer the consequences of how much icy water he had swallowed. Soaked and on the snow ; with blood pooling and staining white. Logic and reasoning is weighed out by the desperation, fear and pain he felt. Everything in him was aware that he should be dead, should have immediately died on impact. By now, he should feel the threat of hypothermia beginning to loom. Oh, but the dangers of one’s own body shutting itself down from the cold, blood loss and trauma from the fall? The evident dangers of nature itself, of the relentless winter that could easily claim a life…
Was the least of his concerns. Scarier things existed out here, ones that might not be as merciful as mother nature could sometimes be.
Gasps are forced from bloodied lips, eyes hardly able to focus in on his surroundings. Everything is a blur, and most of the time he’s out like a light. The pain is unbearable, the cold is too much… the lull of slumber keeps pulling him in. The terror of being pulled isn’t enough to kick start his adrenaline, believing that if he closed his eyes one more time, he would never reopen them. He can’t see, can’t make out the steps. He assumes it’s a predator, something that’s going to eat him while he’s out. Ah, how close to the truth he was.
Bucky wakes, startled and in pain. What remains of a torn ( and unknowingly devoured ) arm is pounding, burning - still bleeding. Trickles of blood that causes droplets to collect around the cavern floor, but not enough that it will define his death being blood loss. Without his knowledge, the newly introduced serum in his system is keeping him alive. For how long? He does not know. And when he realizes the horrors of his situation, he will wish it hadn’t worked its miracle. Panicked and hazy eyes are flicking around the dark surroundings, trying to figure out where he was ; how he got here. What else was here with him.
Until realization comes that the searing white pain coming from his left, is because there’s no longer a limb. Finger tips pushing and pressing against exposed veins, muscles, bone and soiled tissue. Blood squelching, sticking and staining his hands. “Fuck…” Voice is strained, a wince. Heart rate elevates, and he feels as though he can no longer catch his breath. Positioning damp combat boots against the floor, knowing he’ll have to balance himself before fully standing. Should he call out? Did someone help him? So many questions, and so many doubts. A terrible feeling in the back of his mind, in his gut.
humans are strange. their anatomy, their bodies, how they function -- odd. they’d always thought so. spending countless hours holed in the cavern while the elements whipped and roared through the forest, making the ground tremble with howling winds. they’d even laid near the mouth of the rocky ledge, mass protecting the injured human from said elements, not allowing the snow and ice and sharp wind in to harm them any further. it was rare for them to feel pity toward one of his breed -- humans were prey, they’d branded themselves as such when the tribe he’d protected centuries ago turned on them.
there was a fleeting thought that this one would inevitably turn on them as well. hollowed eye sockets were focused on the bleeding male, skull rested heavily against the rocky floor. strange.
had it been anytime other than the dead of winter, hunting for medicinal herbs to help the human’s condition would’ve been much easier. milling about now, it was much more difficult, using the tip of their skull to push aside snow and ice, searching and searching for something to pack the injury with. every plant was familiar to them, every piece of green had its hidden pros and cons, though now ... finding anything was difficult. even animals to feast on was proving much harder then they were used to. rabbits, mice, the occasional bird. briefly wondering what the other would want to eat when they woke. not something raw, no -- they needed cooked meat. gathering what they could, even starting a fire near the mouth of the cave when the elements permitted it ... a nice little stash of disgusting cooked meat was formed. hopefully enough to satiate them when they woke from their recuperative nap.
they’d heard them stirring. heard the small curse, heard them sitting and moving. they’d been perched outside, unable to handle the maddening stench of fresh meat, blood, hearing his heart continue to pump and plow through the damage that had been done. a rough growl rumbling their chest, akin to a big cat’s purr, as they showed themselves at the mouth of the shelter -- large and threatening, though gaunt, nearly blocking out the light of the sun entirely. speaking up with a borrowed voice, a man’s, disjointed and broken as if poorly mimicked. they hadn’t heard a human’s voice in many years.
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